In the cornfields speckled poppies glow in a twilight, moving shadows,
From the High Wood the reaper walks, a harvest to be gathered,
The skylark’s solo fateful cry, the hares alert now scattered,
The pheasant raised by beating drums in a field prepared for battle.
The orders raised at crack of dawn, the regiment made ready then stood the day beneath a sun, impatient for their calling,The melody of broken hooves, their harnesses a jangling, and up the line the squadrons move a dark parade assembling.Light horse crossing heavy ground, trembling trepidation, the steaming flanks the nervous hearts the lances high and steady,Rallied by an empire’s call from India with honours, turbans tight and stained with sweat ,the dust disguising colours.
They thread their way cross valley floors through shell holes and the fallen, impending threats their sabres drawn, a prayer by Crucifix Corner.
(a start, not even trotting yet, still adjusting the line)